


don't lose your fight, kid

by bellawritess



Series: malum prompts [13]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Based on an All Time Low Song, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, High School, M/M, Pre-Slash, Songfic, but why would you, i guess it could be gen??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27706997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellawritess/pseuds/bellawritess
Summary: Michael sits on his bed and thinks about the wordalways.
Relationships: Michael Clifford/Calum Hood
Series: malum prompts [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026381
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	don't lose your fight, kid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunsetmagnolia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmagnolia/gifts).



> **prompt:** missing you by all time low
> 
> [tumblr link!](https://clumsyclifford.tumblr.com/post/621144418999730176/i-heard-that-youve-been-having-some-trouble)
> 
> title from missing you by all time low

Michael sits on his bed and thinks about the word _always_.

It’s a tricky word, and Michael hates tricky words. People use them all the time. He’s least fond of _love_ ; that one gets passed around like a virus. Sometimes people say they love him, but people also say they love any dog they meet, and Michael knows that’s impossible. Love is supposed to be sacred. It’s supposed to be the kind of declaration that stacks up until it weighs heavy on your chest, and it’s supposed to hurt in a good way, and make you want to laugh and cry and hold the object of your affection too tight. Michael likes dogs just fine, but his heart doesn’t break when the newest neighborhood mutt walks away from him. And he doubts Ashton’s heart breaks, either.

(Well, Ashton’s might. Ashton is capable of loving just about anyone. But he’s the exception that proves the rule.)

Michael isn’t thinking about love at the moment, though, because he’s really stuck on _always_. It’s supposed to be something permanent, a commitment to last until the end of time. It’s kind of intimidating when Michael thinks about its intended meaning. The trouble is that nobody else seems to care about intended meaning.

He keeps hearing _always_ tossed about in place of _often_ , and he wants to yell that they’re not the same. His mum isn’t _always_ washing the dishes after dinner (Michael just did them on Monday); Michael isn’t _always_ late to band practice, as Luke’s annoyingly fond of accusing; Ashton can’t _always_ be around to pick them up from school early, as he’d arbitrarily promised last week. Michael understands what they’re trying to say, but it pisses him off that they won’t just say what they mean. Words should hold power. Instead they’re just twisted.

And he knows people _do_ twist words, and therefore he shouldn’t trust anyone who speaks, because it feels like Michael is the only one left defending the honor of the English language. But Michael’s not a logical person, so here he is anyway, curled up and wondering what his mum had meant when she’d said on the phone to a friend, “Michael is always in his room. I’m a little bit worried about what it means for him.”

The thing is, Michael’s not always in his room. It’s pretty easy to disprove that. There are a boatload of witnesses that could confirm he leaves every morning, Monday through Friday, to go to school, and from there he goes to Luke’s for band practice. Sometimes he leaves to go to Calum’s. In fact, on the whole, Michael averages out pretty low on the amount of time he spends in his room; nowadays he might spend more time in Luke’s living room than his own.

But then why would his mum be worried? What is there to worry about?

(Michael fucking knows what there is to worry about. He’s just been trying his hardest to ignore it.)

Michael’s been sitting, stewing in his thoughts on words, among other things, for two hours. It’s now gone ten p.m., and Michael hasn’t moved, and every second it’s more tempting to just never move again. He could stay here _forever_ (another word that is victim of abuse). 

There’s a tap on his door.

Michael doesn’t answer. Maybe his mum will take the hint and fuck off.

The tap repeats itself. “Mikey?”

Michael blinks at the door, which sounds like Calum’s voice.

“Calum?”

“Yeah. Can I come in?”

“What — okay. Yeah.”

Maybe before Calum comes in Michael should try to make it look like he hasn’t been sat alone and depressed for two hours, but before he can really figure out how to make that happen, Calum enters. Michael’s room is dark, and Calum, backlit by the light spilling in from the hallway, looks almost angelic. 

“Hey,” Calum says, closing the door behind him. “Your mum let me in.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Checking on you.”

Michael normally likes this about Calum, that he doesn’t beat around the bush. Still, his hackles spring up as soon as Calum says it.

“Why?”

“Because I thought you’d need a friend,” Calum says simply. “Can I stay?”

If Michael had to pick one person to love, he would pick Calum. “If you want,” he says. “I won’t be much fun, though.”

“You’re never much fun,” Calum says, in a way that’s obviously a joke. Michael huffs, which would be a laugh if he weren’t caught up in a mental spiral of _what are you even good for._

Calum climbs onto the bed with Michael and sits cross-legged in front of him. “Do you wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

“No.” Then, “Nothing’s wrong.” Because Michael is a liar.

Calum raises an eyebrow. “Liar. But you don’t have to tell me if you really don’t want to.”

Michael wishes it were easier to explain himself. He wishes for a clear way to say _I don’t want to tell you, I just want you to know, but I don’t want you to know, I just want to tell you._

“Do you want me to leave?” Calum asks.

“No.” Easy answer.

“Do you want me to shut up?”

Michael thinks. “I don’t know.”

“Well, how about whenever you want me to shut up, you just tell me to? Promise I won’t be offended.”

That sounds like a pretty good deal to Michael. “Okay,” he says.

“What are you thinking about?”

 _Your eyes_ , Michael almost says, because at this exact moment he is. They look black in this tenebrous room, but Michael knows that in real life they’re a deep, warm brown, and they’re so comforting that Michael feels warmth by proxy just from looking at them.

Why is daylight “real life” but not darkness? Isn’t darkness just as real as daylight? Calum’s eyes can’t be black _and_ brown. But right now, they look black, and that feels real. Calum’s eyes can’t be more than one thing. Can they?

Can anything be more than one thing, in a different light?

Can _always_ mean _often_ in a different light?

“Words,” Michael says finally.

Calum tilts his head. “Care to elaborate?”

“Nope.”

“Fine. I’m thinking words too, but I won’t tell you what they are.”

Michael should be irritated that Calum is mocking him when he’s clearly under duress, but all he feels is love. He doesn’t even think he knows how to be cross with Calum. He never learned how to. 

“I’m not thinking words,” Michael says. “I’m thinking _about_ words.”

“Oh yeah? Using what?”

“Thoughts.”

“Thoughts comprised of…?”

“Fuck off,” Michael grumbles. Calum laughs.

“I’m only teasing,” he says, as if that wasn’t clear. “Now do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Stop asking me what’s wrong.” _Nothing_ is wrong, that’s the whole fucking problem. Today had been a beautiful day and band practice had gone abnormally well, but Michael is still spiraling, and he doesn’t know why. It should be illegal to feel this bad on a day this good. And it should be illegal to feel this bad for no fucking reason.

“Okay,” Calum says. “Want me to talk?”

Michael shrugs.

“Want to cuddle?”

Michael nods. 

“Well, you could’ve just said,” Calum says. “Come on, it’ll be nicer under the covers.”

Michael sighs and allows himself to be coaxed under the duvet. He rests his head on Calum’s arm, stretched out across the pillows, and Calum slots their legs together, and Michael puts his hand in between them only for Calum to grab hold of it and intertwine their fingers, too. Before long Michael feels wholly tangled up with Calum, and it hits him, again, that he loves Calum. His chest has been hurting for hours but now it’s starting to ache in a way that he wants to protect, instead of banish.

“Michael?”

“Hm.”

“What can I do?”

Michael breathes out, careful not to be too forceful. Calum’s face is close, and he doesn’t want to breathe on Calum.

“Just,” Michael sighs. He closes his eyes. “Just don’t go?”

“I won’t.” Calum makes sentences sound like promises. He makes _I won’t_ sound like an _always_.

“Be nice?” Michael adds, tentative. “Just remind me that you don’t hate me?”

“I could never hate you,” Calum says instantly, twisting the word _never_ , but it makes Michael feel a little safer. Michael toys with the idea that words are made to be twisted. “You mean the world to me, Michael. I’ll say it until you can hear me saying it in your sleep. I’ll say it more times than that. You’re my best friend, and you always will be.”

 _Always_.

Michael’s heart is doing a syncopated rhythm against his sternum. Calum is promising _always_ , and Michael shouldn’t believe it, because people lie about that stuff all the time, but he can’t feel the usual resistance to the word. His eyes are still closed, and all he can feel is Calum rubbing circles against the back of Michael’s hand with his thumb, and the warmth of their calves pressed together, and Calum’s breath ghosting over his lips, and he believes, fleetingly, in the _always_.

If Michael could wish for an _always_ for one person, anyway, it would be Calum.

“Would you hate me if I said I love you?” Michael mumbles.

“No,” Calum says. “Would you?”

“No.”

“Good. I love you.”

And Michael shouldn’t buy it, that Calum loves him the way Michael loves Calum, because just today Calum had told Luke he loved him for getting Calum a glass of water so he wouldn’t have to get up, but the words settle easily under Michael’s ribcage, daring Michael to throw them away. 

He _wants_ to believe Calum. 

“Do you mean it?”

“What do you mean, do I mean it?”

“I mean you can’t just say you love me unless you mean it,” Michael says. “Love is a big deal. I really love you.” His cheeks are pink, and he’s grateful that the darkness hides it.

“Fuck you, I really love you,” Calum says. “I mean it. Why wouldn’t I mean it?” 

“I didn’t say you don’t.”

“You kinda did.”

“I just wanted to make sure.”

“Well, I mean it,” Calum says, squeezing Michael’s hand with his own. “I wouldn’t come over at ten o’clock at night to cuddle just anyone.”

Michael can believe that, at least. Calum is his best friend, no one else’s. And with their palms pressed together like this, Michael finds it easy to trust Calum, and so obvious that Calum loves him, and he breathes a little easier.

It’s not perfect — nothing is — but if _always_ does exist, Michael thinks it starts right here, right now, cuddled up under his duvet with Calum.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading <3 i'm on tumblr [@clumsyclifford](http://clumsyclifford.tumblr.com/) so come say hey!


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